Scott Manley Hadley (whingy hipster blogger, bald poet and proud dog owner) spat out the stone from the olive he’d sucked from his morning martini (gin, dry, dirty), and it flew towards the corner of the room. It bounced once and rolled into the charred corpse of a recently deceased reindeer, probably Blitzen. Cubby, Scott’s loyal Tibetan Terrier (three years old, castrated, charming but lazy), was gnawing on the reindeer’s leg with excitement and fatigue: this was already his second reindeer of the day.

Pulling the wrapper off a brand new Black & Decker sander, Scott Manley Hadley walked towards the bearded fat baby boomer bastard he’d also captured on the roof last night. Scott glanced at his Game of Thrones-themed cufflinks and considered rolling up his sleeves. No, fuck it, he didn’t want to. Scott reached the fireplace of the chalet he’d hired for the weekend and bent down to slap the red alcoholic’s nose that poked out of the bulbous, beard-covered face that was hanging upside down out of the chimney. ‘Merry Christmas, buddy,’ Scott whispered as the old fucker blinked awake. He was still wearing his furs, so was probably boiling. ‘This must be the worst Christmas Day of your life,’ Scott whispered, licking his lips and thinking, happily, of the billions of disappointed children who’d be waking up in a few hours with no presents at all. Scott Manley Hadley, instead, had the ideal Christmas present for the angry youngish millennial: the quasi-mythical body of a fat old man, whose very existence was doubted by pretty much everyone over eight years of age. Perfect.

Stepping away for a moment, Scott plugged his box-fresh sander into the extension lead he was running the Christmas tree lights off and undid his top button. He made sure the sandpaper was attached properly to the bit of the machine that spins, and depressed the soft, green, ignition button. As he stepped towards Father Christmas’ face, words began pouring forth in panic and fear.

‘What’s wrong?’ Scott asked, ‘It’s important to remember to exfoliate.’

Roughly, hungrily, Scott Manley Hadley used his left hand to tightly grip the hair on the back of Father Christmas’s head, and with his right pressed forwards with the shiny, matt black, sander. An absolute fucking torrent of blood sprayed onto the cream throw rug in front of the fireplace and Cubby immediately skipped over to lick up the fragments of flesh. Scott was impressed by how fast his new toy could sand off an entire nose, and words were again flowing out of the mouth above the gaping fucking wound.

‘Sorry, Santa,’ said Scott, thinking about what to sand off next, ‘I don’t speak Swedish.’

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Scott Manley Hadley reviews for Open Pen, as well as over on his blog Triumph Of The Now.

His debut poetry collection Bad Boy Poet is in shops now, and available to buy at OpenPen.shop with free shipping.

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